A tear slid down her cheek and she turned from him. Huddled amid the furs, she would not speak.
Death was too good for any of the Normans. Ruarc strode outside, his fists curling up. It took only seconds to find an enemy soldier. Blood seemed to swim before his eyes, and he released his rage, snapping the man’s head backwards with a punch.
Taken by surprise, the Norman hesitated a fraction before retaliating with his own strike. Ruarc dodged the blow and pounded at the enemy’s ribs.
He’d passed beyond all reason. All he could think of was hurting the unknown man who had harmed his sister. One of these men had taken away his sister’s voice and her innocence. And they would pay dearly for it.
He tasted blood, enduring bruises but getting in a few solid punches of his own. Lug, if he had a sword, he’d love to slaughter them all.
Another Norman joined in. Ruarc struck a kick to the man’s gut, spinning to punch another. A rib cracked, and Ruarc dove at the first man, slamming his fist into the Norman’s jaw.
Then something hard struck his head. His vision blurred, and he dropped to the ground. Dimly he was aware of his hands confined, his body dragged across the ground. They forced him to sit with his back against a post. Leather bindings tightened across his wrists as his kinsman regarded him.
“You will remain here until your king returns,” Bevan MacEgan commanded. “And I don’t think that will be until tomorrow’s sunrise. You’d best pray that the gods show mercy upon you. For Patrick won’t.”
Ruarc raised his eyes to Bevan’s. “They hurt my sister. And they should burn for what they did to her.”
He saw the flash of recognition in Bevan’s eyes. Of all the men, his cousin understood. He’d lost his own wife Fiona to the invaders.
“My sister deserves vengeance,” Ruarc said beneath his breath. “None of them should be alive.”
Bevan rose, crossing his arms as he regarded the Normans. From inside Ruarc’s hut, Sosanna emerged. Her cheeks were wet with tears, her hands clenched around her middle. There was nothing in her eyes, save resignation.
“I agree,” Bevan said quietly. “The Normans have much to answer for.”
Isabelheldontotheedges of the wooden boat as Patrick rowed toward the island. She felt like a child facing punishment from a parent. Her husband’s face held the creases of deep rage.
“I cannot believe you swam that far,” Patrick said, his arm muscles flexing against the pull of the tide. Crimson streaks of sunlight rippled upon the water. The sea had grown calm, a contrast to her husband’s temper. “You could have drowned.”
“I could have, yes.” She managed a chagrined smile, though it did nothing to soften his gruffness. “I realized that when I was halfway across. By then, it was too late to turn back.”
“Don’t do something that foolish again,” he warned. His oars sliced through the water, drawing them closer to the island.
“Next time, I’ll borrow a boat.” If she could find one, that is. She had no desire to experience such cold water again.
“There won’t be a next time.”
Isabel was growing tired of his high-handed ways. His orders were from an effort to control her, not concern for her safety. “Do not be so sure of that.”
Shadows silhouetted his face. He stopped rowing and let the oars rest upon the wood. “What are you trying to prove, Isabel?”
She tucked her hands between her knees, suddenly aware of the intensity of him. His steel gray eyes held such anger. The lean planes of his face held no sympathy, nothing but a fierce warrior.
“I won’t be commanded by a man who chooses to exile me.”
“Won’t you?” He rested his forearms upon his knees, the leather bracers emphasizing the deeply cut muscles.
“No.” Behind the weight of responsibility, he was a handsome warrior. What would he be like if he weren’t so angry? Isabel hadn’t missed the way the Irish women had watched him.
“Were you betrothed to anyone, before you wed me?” she asked.
Patrick shook his head. “Why do you ask?”
Because the women had stared at him as though he were a delicious cake dripping with honey. “You aren’t terribly ugly,” she offered. “And you are a king.”
“Not terribly ugly?” His mouth twitched. “And here I thought I was a barbarian monster.”
She nodded her agreement, and his lips curved upwards.
